


of a love and what came after

by kissmeinnewyork



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance?, Sexual Tension, Shaving, because i can't stop writing shaving fics, best enemies, did anyone ask for this?, i hate them, kind of, no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: She drops the blade into the bowl, not meeting his gaze. Her hand turns in his grip. Fingers interlock, and this reminds her of home more than anything. If Gallifrey had bike sheds they’d be kissing in them. “I have ran out of white flags to wave at you.” She swallows, voice suddenly cracked. “Koschei.”(Despite everything, there are still moments of tenderness between them. Thirteen/Master.)
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 162





	of a love and what came after

**Author's Note:**

> lol this is the first fic ive written in MONTHS and guess what im back on my doctormaster bullshit 
> 
> hope u enjoy
> 
> kudos/reviews appreciated
> 
> (also if u have a good thoschei fic u wanna recommend leave it in the comments i need sustenance)

There are noises coming from the bathroom.

There are noises coming from the bathroom, and there shouldn’t be, because the last time she checked she’d dropped Yaz, Graham and Ryan back in Sheffield and she was very much alone. There is absolutely no reason why there should be noises coming from the bathroom--her _favourite_ bathroom, actually, the one with the dramatic stone tiles and claw-foot white tub--and it sends her hearts racing manically inside her chest.

Unless the water pressure is on the blink again, there is absolutely no reason why there should be noises coming from the bathroom.

She rises from her chair and grabs the only weapon to hand, which just so happens to be a teapot half-full with lukewarm Earl Grey. It splashes annoyingly loudly against the china in her attempt to be stealthy, tiptoeing down the hall.

There are still noises coming from the bathroom. Clattering, the slamming of cupboard doors, like someone is rifling through her belongings. Her forehead creases in confusion. If someone were to break into the TARDIS--she has some of the universe’s most capable technology hidden in bookcases and wheelie bins and a Dalek ray gun camouflaged amongst some kitchen utensils. The most valuable thing she has in her bathroom is toilet paper she picked up from Boots. _Four pounds._ Daylight robbery, as she’d huffed irritably at Yaz, who rolled her eyes and said anything cheaper felt like sandpaper.

Come to think of it, if her unwanted visitor _is_ stealing her toilet paper, she would actually be quite annoyed about it.

With hitched breath, she presses her hand against the wood of the door and eases it open. The sight that meets her eyes is... _unwelcome,_ to say the least.

The Master. The Master, in one of _her_ bathrobes, rummaging round the shelf under her sink like he’s her flatmate and not the person she hates most in the universe.

“What the _hell_?” she exclaims, slamming the door closed behind her. He doesn’t even flinch, arrogant bastard. Just continues examining her shelves like he owns them. “How did you even get in here?”

He doesn’t look up. His dark hair is messy and damp, like a smudge of wet ink. The air smells like lavender and freesias. It smells like the _Lush_ bath set Yaz’s mum got her for Christmas, which was so weirdly touching and kind that she hasn’t been able to use it since, just displaying it like an award from the one mother who hasn’t yet slapped her.

“Key.” He states plainly, which only makes her more confused, because she’s definitely not given him a key and even if she _had,_ she’s in _deep space._ “You don’t own a single razor. Not one. I understand that you might not have given the face--although you might have done, who am I to know--but your legs? You’re a woman now. Women shave their legs, at the very least.”

“No they don’t, not if they don’t want to,” she huffs, “But that’s beside the point and _none of your business._ ”

“It is very much my business when I need to shave.” His eyes skim her over for a moment. “What were you planning on using the teapot for? Tea with an old friend? How civilised.”

She snorts derisively, resting the teapot next to the sink. “You’re not an old friend. You’re an intruder.”

“Semantics, sweetheart.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.” She warns, pointing her finger at him. He merely smiles, jarringly soft, almost pleasant. She doesn’t want to think of him as pleasant. She _can’t._ “You--you need to leave. And you need to give me that key.”

He tuts disapprovingly. Goes back to rummaging. “As if I would surrender it that easily. Especially considering you haven’t given me what I want.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically, slouching against the door. “What is this time? Free reign over Earth? Permission to enslave the Trivolians because they’re annoying you? Surrender the seven keys to Doomsday? Because you can walk on, mate.”

“As if I’d need your permission to do any of those things,” he states, not untruthfully, because burning planets are his smoke signals, his texting. He’s never sought her approval for any of those things. It’s usually the opposite. “I just want a decent shave, is that too much to ask?”

“ _Yes,_ when you break into _my_ TARDIS to do it. Why can’t you just do it in your own? You’ve always said you hate my colour schemes anyway.”

His lip juts out as he takes in the surroundings--the bright, effervescent blues of the walls, reminding her of the sea and the salt and the sky that envelopes Earth. She deliberately chooses themes that drown out the blood red of the people he’s killed, _she’s_ killed. She deliberately chooses colours that do not remind her of home.

“You’re not wrong. But the water pressure is causing me some problems and I wouldn’t dream of bathing anywhere but a TARDIS bathroom. I stole a suite at the Dorchester a few days ago--disgusting, may I add. I refuse to wash anywhere near human filth.”

She rolls her eyes, not for the first time in his presence, shoving him out the way to get to the rarely used cupboard round the side of the tub. As with history, the quickest way to get rid of the Master is to give him what he wants. After a brief second of searching, she brings out a small blade and a bowl and hands it to him.

He hums thoughtfully, examining her apparatus.

“What is it now?” She sighs in exasperation. “Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he insists, “Just...old fashioned, is all.”

“Sometimes I like old fashioned.”

“You have _always_ been disgustingly modern. Apart from the celery thing. The celery thing--that was just plain weird.”

She sticks her tongue out at him petulantly, a reflex response. Sometimes he infuriates her so damn much that even her mouth can’t find the words to retaliate. He chuckles, relaxing, sitting on the edge of the tub.

“You used to be able to take a joke, too. Sometimes. Did your sense of humour vanish with this regeneration or…?”

“I have a _fantastic_ sense of humour,” she exclaims, folding her arms defiantly across her chest. “I just don’t find _you_ very funny. In fact, you make me very sad and angry most of the time and frankly, I’m sick of it. And now you’re hanging around _my_ TARDIS like dirty laundry.”

He scoffs, but even that is somehow melodic. “Oh, and you used to be so eloquent. Top marks for literacy back in the academy and now you iterate your emotions like a _child._ ”

“Shut up.” She bites back. He’s touching every single one of her thousands of nerves yet he still sits there and grins, like the millions of years of history between them are beautiful, sepia-toned memories not soaked in blood. “You have already outstayed your welcome. Unwelcome. And I’ve got stuff to do so just do your business and _get out_.”

The bathroom lulls into quiet apart from the ambient dripping of the tap in the bath. He’s smiling, looking downwards, and she takes him in--wondering if there are hearts underneath all his chaos, this body and its calming lilt and eyes that can be deceivingly kind, at times. He used to have hearts. Bright, beautiful ones that millenia ago he’d asked her to come closer to, for her hands to linger on his ribcage, feel how alive he was. She was. But that was millenia ago. She does not see sand and think of the tangerine dust of Gallifrey, how the wind blew and it all but spelled out his name.

Nostalgia does not feel good. It feels like a cold sweat, jittery and nauseating. Because it was so good and became so _bad._

And yet. _And yet._ There is something about him, whatever the form. There is something about him that makes it impossible to bury, along with the bodies of her parents and her friends and her children. And it is more than him merely being more alive than the rest of them.

She snatches the bowl and the blade out of his hands. He looks up at her, slightly startled. “Fill up a bowl with warm water. I’ll do it. Then I will escort you out.”

He’s taken aback, but not exactly complaining. He wordlessly takes the bowl back and runs the tap, filtering the water between his fingers. “If this is a discreet way for you to slit my throat, I have calculated thousands of ways to instantly overpower you and turn the blade on you.”

She snorts a laugh as she finds shaving foam, a clean towel. “If I wanted to kill you I would have done it already.”

“Touche, dear Doctor. Touche.”

She raises a wry eyebrow but her throat feels clogged, because this is what he does. They do. They fall into banter, this flitting back and forth, and she forgets the bodies rotting beneath their feet. He sinks to the floor for ease and she copies, wordlessly applying cream to his face with as stern an expression as she can manage.

“Your tongue is sticking out.” He says, grinning. She didn’t even realise she was doing it. Self-consciously, she tries to straighten herself, stop him from laughing.

“Stop it. I’m concentrating. I don’t want you regenerating because I’ve slipped now I’ve got the decor how I like it.”

He silences. His eyes watch her, the jarringly deft and gentle way she glides the blade over his skin. Maybe he’s thinking through how he could kill her right now. The thought makes her muscles tighten, but he won’t. Not now. This is their ten-minute truce, their no-man's land.

Their bodies are closer than they’ve been in decades. She can feel that sputtering, the electricity she’s struggled so hard to pull the plug on but refuses to be snuffed out like a candle. The Master refuses to be snuffed out. Maybe that is their tragedy. While they are still alive--she can not settle with good memories, knowing there will be no more bad. Because for every good memory the Master creates, there are infinitely more bad ones.

Well, he was always more predictable than he thought he was. She can read him like a book.

She’s almost finished when his hand curls round her wrist. She almost pulls back. _Almost._ But his grip is tender, loose. She is not his hostage.

“You are thinking about no-man's land.” He says, because of course, he’s been looking inside her head. Not rifling, she’d feel that. He’s actually taken her privacy into account for once. “Waving your little white flag.”

She drops the blade into the bowl, not meeting his gaze. Her hand turns in his grip. Fingers interlock, and this reminds her of home more than anything. If Gallifrey had bike sheds they’d be kissing in them. “I have ran out of flags to wave at you.” She swallows, voice suddenly cracked. “ _Koschei._ ”

His hand freeze. Holds his breath for one, two, three seconds. “I know. I know you have.”

He suddenly rises and the moment fractures, her hearts going with it. She can taste war, not peacetime. There is still more war to come. He will keep on breaking her hearts, again and again and again, until she’s uncertain whether she’s got any left, either.

“Not bad, Doctor. Not bad.” He says, examining his face in the mirror. “Considering you’re out of practice.”

She wants to ask him not to leave. But that would just be embarrassing for both of them.

“Well.” He grabs his pile of clothes and his shoes from next to the radiator. “Thank you kindly for letting me use your facilities. And now I shall leave. I suspect that I will see you again before long.”

In a way, she hopes she never sees him again. There is an unpleasant ache that accompanies the thought.

She tries a smile. “Try and not massacre too many civilisations in the meantime. Genocide detox?”

“Genocide is my detox.” He says, but his smile is jagged, not proud. “Au revoir, my dear Doctor.”

He disappears round the edge of the door, still clutching his clothes, and when she follows there is nothing left of him at all.

She slumps against the hallway wall and does not move for what feels like a very long time.


End file.
